The Brit
“If you pull away, I won’t stop you.” His statement must trigger something inside of me. Alertness. My nerves spring to life, and suddenly the pain is there. But I don’t pull away, my teeth gritting instead as I endure his torture. It’s nothing in comparison to other cruelties I’ve faced. Nothing compared to other punishments I’ve suffered.
But he’s not punishing me. He’s trying to figure me out.
And me him.
I engage my spare hand and reach blindly for his, our eyes glued. Danny makes it easy for me to find, actually placing his big hand in mine. I bring it over the toaster too. He doesn’t stop me. I press his palm down on top of the metal, right next to mine.
His face doesn’t crack, but his eyes go from simmering heat to a full-blown inferno, his jaw now as tight as mine as we stand there torturing each other.
He won’t pull away. I won’t pull away. What point are we trying to prove to each other?
Then the toaster suddenly decides enough is enough and the lever springs up. The heat dies. And Danny suddenly jerks us both away, both of us gasping. Turning our hands palm up, he looks down, studying the matching welts. “We’re the same,” he whispers, bringing my hand to his mouth and kissing the burn.
Soft Danny.
It’s then realization slams into me, so hard, he must feel my body jolt. He returns his fiery eyes to mine, as if he’s heard the bombshell drop into my brain.
I remind him of someone.
Him?
It doesn’t add up. He’s the son of Carlo Black. Rich, powerful, feared. My eyes fall to the scar on his cheek. It seems to be glowing at me now, highlighting its presence and stirring the pot of questions in my tangled mind.
“Let’s fix you up.” He breaks into my thoughts, cutting off the questions before I can ask, and something tells me it’s tactical. I’m in a trance, unmoving, paralyzed by curiosity. I snap out of it the second my feet aren’t keeping me anchored to the ground anymore. He picks me up and sits me on the countertop next to the sink, flipping the faucet on. Then he takes both our burned hands under the cold stream together, turning them over in the water. I stare down at them, his skin next to my skin, the same tanned tone. His manly hand and my dainty one. “Did you sleep well?” he asks, not looking up at me.
I hum my response, unable to kick the questions back. I should, since his actions now are warning me in every way not to ask. Then why spike my intrigue with moments like that?
Turning off the water, Danny grabs a towel and pats at my skin, inspecting the damage. The center of my palm is red raw. He looks up at me, the front of his jeans brushing my knees.
“I’ll dress it for you.”
“There’s no need.” I pull my hand from his and try to slip down, but I’m blocked, my hand reclaimed.
“I will dress it for you,” he repeats, this time sterner.
I press my lips lightly together to stop another refusal flowing as he places my hand gently on my lap and moves across the kitchen, pulling something down from a cupboard. I see it’s a small first aid kit when he makes it back to me. He takes my wrist and pulls me down, walking me to the island. “Sit.” Brusque Danny is back.
I perch on the stool and watch as he goes about dressing my hand, but first he rubs some cream into the sore, spending an age making sure every bit of the white lotion is absorbed before he meticulously wraps my hand in a white length of material. He does a very neat job, leaving me with a perfectly bandaged hand.
I flex it a little. “Thank you,” I say, as he starts putting the things back in the box, ignoring me. “What about your hand?” Something deep and misplaced inside of me wants to take care of his wound too.
He shoves the box back in the cupboard. “My skin is thicker than yours,” he grunts, striding to the door.
“What now?” I call, making him stop a few feet from the exit. Is it me, or is he in a rush all of a sudden?
He doesn’t look back. “What now what?”
“Well, what am I supposed to do?”
“You wait until I tell you what to do. In the meantime, show yourself around. Use the amenities. Whatever.” He takes two more steps and stops again, still not looking back. “But if you try to escape, I won’t think twice about killing you.” And with that final warning, he disappears.
Chapter 11
DANNY
* * *
“The men had nothing on them. No ID, nothing,” Brad says as we walk the maze of paths on the grounds of the mansion the next evening. I’ve been holed up in that office all day, finalizing plans for the delivery. My head’s ringing with logistics. I needed to escape. Some days, I just need to walk. To feel my feet. To breathe in air and look at the color blanketing the beds of the garden. To remind myself there is something other than blackness in my world.